


All of us are heroes, all of us are traitors

by scemosanto



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Background Craracter Gender Change, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of addiction, Minor Character Death, Multi, Pining, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scemosanto/pseuds/scemosanto
Summary: In Thedas, mages spend their entire lives in isolated Circle towers, guarded by the Templar Order of the Chantry. Those who run away are hunted as apostates, and those who don’t have little control of their own lives.Enjolras, leader of a rebel group of mages in one of the smaller Circles, is plotting for an uprising. Grantaire, the group’s least convinced member, hates it. Despite him being hopelessly obsessed with Enjolras since the day they met, he always thought Enjolras’ talk of revolution was nothing more than empty words. But now he can see he was wrong, because the rebellion is approaching, and he can do nothing but join.(The story is set in Dragon Age universe, but features mostly Les Mis characters. Basically, it's a Dragon Age AU with Les Amis as rebel mages.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Все мы герои и все мы изменники](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8857663) by [scemosanto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scemosanto/pseuds/scemosanto), [Элайджа Бейли (kohvoo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kohvoo/pseuds/%D0%AD%D0%BB%D0%B0%D0%B9%D0%B4%D0%B6%D0%B0%20%D0%91%D0%B5%D0%B9%D0%BB%D0%B8). 



> This is a translation from Russian, and I need a beta desperately. So if you'd like to help me make this more presentable, or if you notice any mistakes, please please let me know in the comments. 
> 
> Also, Jehan is a girl in this one.
> 
> Illustrations by [Shoemaker](http://madshoemaker.tumblr.com/)

**Part I. The Montfort Circle**

**Chapter one**

 

Grantaire preferred the last cell on the left to all the others in the dungeon because it was the only one that featured some semblance of a window: a narrow horizontal hole just below the ceiling that allowed a bit of light inside during the day. Total darkness frightened Grantaire. Templars knew that, so they usually let him choose.

Grantaire didn’t take these confinements badly: on the contrary, they gave him a chance to make better plans in the future. Every time he got caught he took full responsibility and descended into the Montfort Circle dungeons willingly. Especially when he had been caught red-handed, and not by clueless templars, but by the First Enchanter himself. Myriel needed to look at the bowl just once to realize that what Grantaire had been mixing there had nothing to do with paint or light elixirs.

His punishment usually meant staying in lock-up until the next day. Not so bad, as far as Grantaire was concerned.

He was already half-asleep when a key clinked in the dungeon door’s lock. High ceiling carried Eponine’s snarky voice, which was met with a silence so deliberate Grantaire could physically sense it.

“...Outdone yourself.” Grantaire wasn’t able to catch the beginning of the sentence. “I’m quite impressed. You almost inspired me to draw a sword and pledge myself to mage freedom. Did you rehearse the whole thing, or was that just an improvisation? Come to think of it, though,” Eponine’s words dripped acid, “you get locked up so much you must have more than enough time for composing fiery speeches.”

Her prisoner remained silent, but Grantaire could imagine him glaring. Eponine was on their side, but Enjolras still hated it when templars tried to judge his message.

The door of the cell next to Grantaire’s shut with a creaking noise.

“Easy now,”  said Eponine. “Hey, Grantaire! How’s it going?”

“Peachy,” Grantaire replied. She laughed.

“Alright, then. Behave yourselves, you two.”

Grantaire waited until she was gone and moved closer to the next cell’s wall.

“So,” he began, “did Lamarque catch you preaching against Lamarque again or what?”  

The walls here were thin. Not thin enough to scrape through with a spoon, but enough for two prisoners to hold a conversation without raising their voices. They weren’t allowed to, but templars usually let that slide.

 Enjolras kept quiet for a long time — Grantaire had almost decided that he wasn’t in a talkative mood, — but after a while he dignified him with a response.

 “It was Myriel this time.”  

On their last meeting Grantaire had been present only for a short time, but he had seen enough of them to envision the kind of a scene that took place in the library that day. Enjolras was prone to taking things too far: it almost seemed as if he was convinced people would take his resolutionistic nonsense more seriously if he were to declaim it from a higher point. Templars took him climbing tables as a signal to intervene and clear the hall. That usually required Knight-Commander Lamarque, whose presence seemed to pacify Enjolras for some mysterious reason. The fact that the First Enchanter, who was as liberal as they come, took offence this time, meant that things must have really gotten out of hand.

Enjolras knew how to inflame his audience. Sometimes even Grantaire felt like he was on a verge of believing in his cause, and, if not for the common sense, he might have gotten locked up not for the brewing of questionable potions, but for «dismantlement of the Circle and Chantry laws».    

How regrettable it is, he thought, that common sense in him was considerably stronger than the need for change, and the soul-numbing mixtures would always be preferable to the pointless speeches of freedom.

“Myriel became more severe these days,” he said. “Tries to handle both jobs himself. When was the last time you saw Lamarque?”   

Sometimes Grantaire felt like there was a connection between him and Enjolras — purely one-sided, of course. Enjolras barely noticed him, unless Grantaire got drunk and started to pick holes in his passionate manifestos. Grantaire was a fellow mage, so Enjolras humoured him and tried to convince him, which only led to the same repetitive, back-and-forth arguments.

But there was also  the dungeon, where they both had found themselves, time after time; Grantaire — a delinquent, caught on his petty little crimes, and Enjolras — a martyr for the cause, proud, as if a day’s confinement somehow drew him closer to all those who burned and hanged.

Even though a wall was separating them, Grantaire felt Enjolras tense up.

“Lamarque is sick,”  he said, reluctantly.

“You almost sound like you actually feel bad for the man,” Grantaire noticed.

He himself didn’t care much, neither for Lamarque, nor for Myriel, nor for the whole of Orlais with its Circles and neverending power games. One dies — another comes to take their place. At the meetings (other meetings, the ones held behind closed doors after the curfew) Enjolras kept saying that things were about to change outside the Circle, that mages have had enough of waiting and suffering. Grantaire listened to him skeptically. Things might have been changing, sure, but when have they ever changed for the better?

“Somebody much worse might come next,” said Enjolras, and something in the way he said that made Grantaire think he already knew who would be the next Knight-Commander. He might actually know something, Grantaire decided, just doesn’t want to discuss it with a mindless drunkard.

“Is our tireless defender of justice settling for the lesser evil policy now?” Grantaire asked, pretending to be horrified.

The walls were not quite thin enough to let him hear Enjolras sigh, but that's what imagination was for.  He could picture Enjolras’s cell in every little detail: no windows, damp stone walls, cold floor and Enjolras, sitting on a straw rug near the wall, gruff and spirited at the same time. Grantaire rarely saw him outside the meetings or crowds of other Montfort mages, and even in the dungeon there was always a wall between them, but for some reason he imagined that the signature intense expression never left  Enjolras’s face, not even when there was no one to see him.  

“How did you end up here today?” asked Enjolras. There was something unmistakably accusatorial in his tone.

“Let’s play «two lies, one truth»,” Grantaire proposed. “I painted Andraste in a scandalous scene on a girl’s lavatory’s wall, and tried to cast the blame on Jeanne. I made something truly wicked in the laboratory, but my efforts weren’t met with the praise they deserved. I ran away from the Circle and spent a night in the arms of a gorgeous one-eyed rivani girl.”

Enjolras fell silent, and for a moment Grantaire let himself think that he was seriously reflecting on this. He was all the more surprised when Enjolras did actually answer him.

“What did you make in the laboratory?”  

“Wait,” Grantaire said, dumbfounded. “How did you guess? I want to hear the thread of your thoughts.”  

“You wouldn’t have set Jeanne up,” said Enjolras. “Though painting a scandalised Andraste does sound like you. And you would not have been brave enough to run away with a rivani girl.”

“Alright, that was actually rather hurtful,” said Grantaire, trying not to show how startled he was.

They could have spent endless hours here, down below, talking the nights away, but outside the dungeon they were always back to normal — and that was limited to the customary bickering and to the glares Grantaire had been rewarded with for every taunting grin. Dungeons were a no-man’s land, and Grantaire was sure anything he had ever said here left Enjolras’s pretty blond head as soon as he himself left the musty darkness of the cell.  

“I made a marvelous thing,” Grantaire proclaimed loudly, trying to get his mind off the unwanted thoughts. “It had almost burned through the bowl and started at the table at the time Myriel got there and ruined my experiment.”     

“And what were you going for initially?” asked Enjolras. Grantaire wondered if the mockery was intentional or not.

“A light hallucinogen,” he answered cautiously. “But I accidentally used deathroot powder instead of felandris. Actually, I’m pretty sure Myriel was more upset about me ruining precious ingredients than about damaged inventory and a potential explosion.”  

“ «Accidentally»,”  Enjolras repeated, and this time he definitely was mocking him.

“«Switched them deliberately to see what would happen»,”  Grantaire admitted.

“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

Elemental mages,  Grantaire thought tenderly. Not a single clue about neither herbs nor alchemy.      

“No worse than rallying for a rebellion in a Circle, that’s for sure,” said Grantaire. At that Enjolras laughed, and Grantaire froze like an animal under a bowman’s sight.

He had heard Enjolras laughing before: he did it more often than people usually thought — he laughed at Coufeyrac’s silly jokes and Combeferre’s ironic remarks, Jeanne’s satire and Bossuet’s stories of his endless misfortunes. Grantaire even managed to rise a laugh in him once or twice before, here in the dungeons, but  every time this simple human reaction still shocked him.

He realized, helplessly, that he would go any lengths to make it happen again.

“It was nothing compared to the time I switched onyx for obsidian for the heating reaction,” Grantaire continued. He was thankful that Enjolras was on the other side of the wall and couldn’t see his face. “I was fourteen, and bored to death, so…”

“I must have been in Monstimmard then.” Enjolras said suddenly, making Grantaire falter.

Mages rarely spoke about their past. Especially the ones like Grantaire — nobles who were ripped out from high society and thrown into a circle tower. There it made little difference whether you were an elf from the slums or an Empress’ relative, even if everybody knew where you came from.

Enjolras was transferred to Montfort from Montsimmard Circle after its First Enchanter gave up on trying to tame him. Sending him to the outskirts of the country must have been the Chantry’s last resort. He had been sixteen when Grantaire first saw him in Montfort, glowing with fiery anger like an ancient Dalish god. Grantaire was two years older than him and at the time he considered himself a cynic, worn down by life, with nothing there to impress him.  

“Also dying of boredom, I presume?” Asked Grantaire politely. He was well aware that at that time Enjolras had been already attacking the Circle principles any chance he got, fierce as a month-old kitten.

“Making the First Enchanter’s life a nightmare,” Enjolras replied.

“Some things never change, huh.” Grantaire noted. Enjolras chuckled in return.

“So what happened with obsidian and onyx?”

Grantaire started telling the story again. He talked for a long time, maybe for several hours, until Enjolras stopped answering. It was well into the night.

Grantaire moved from the wall and lied right on the stone floor. Throwing back his head he could see a bit of a wall that wrapped the Montfort castle, lit by the moonlight.  He couldn’t see any stars.

He prepared to wait.

 

* * *

Grantaire entered the main hall and yawned so hard that for a moment it felt like he might dislocate his jaw. His head was wobbly and the world seemed surreal. He would gladly find himself a corner to hide in and sleep until noon, but he didn’t want to start breaking the rules just yet. He liked to think that confinement was clearing him of all sins. He preferred to stay righteous at least for a few hours before committing new ones.  

The dining hall was the coldest and gloomiest space in the castle, and the castle wasn’t exactly cosy in any other place either. Rough wooden tables polished with many elbows over the years were standing in the middle of the room. The hall was guarded by templars and filled with constant hum of voices and clattering of crockery. Above all of it hang a painted vault. The painting, crackled and faded as it was, seemed out of place in otherwise nondescript Circle environment.

Most of the libertarians were already there. Combeferre, who was usually considered second in command after Enjolras, looked older than he actually was due to the grim and focused expression he had most of the time. Despite that severe appearance he was a much softer man than Enjolras, a healer by nature and a good judge of character. Like Grantaire, he descended from a noble family, though for him coming to the Circle wasn't as much of a tragedy. A son of a chevalier, he hated violence, even if he had to admit that sometimes it was necessary. Being a mage saved him from following his father’s footsteps in a military career.  

Courfeyrac, the third leader of the Libertarians, was Combeferre’s complete opposite, and also the only elf in the group. He could justly be called their emotional center. Courfeyrac was passionate about friendship and sensitive to everybody’s spirits. He charmed anybody he met easily and was adored even by those who opposed the Libertarian society. He and Enjolras, both charismatic leaders and powerful elemental mages, could have become an unstoppable force if only they had been born to another time and place.

Jeanne resembled a nice and innocent child, harmless and lost in her thoughts  — but only to those who didn’t know her very well. Grantaire did. They shared an attraction to all things morbid and decadent. Though unlike Grantaire, to whom darkness was simply a part of life he had most expertise in, Jehanne found it inspiring, even uplifting. Their parents were acquainted when they were kids, but Grantaire didn’t have the chance to meet her until they both got into the Circle: she grew up in a castle near the Tevinter border, surrounded only by books and a few tutors, away from the court. That kind of upbringing made her thoughtful and self-reliant. It might have also lain a foundation for her abilities: she had an inclination to necromancy and entropy, and was very skillful at creating complicated illusions.

Apart from Enjolras with his passion for epistolary correspondence, she was the only one of them who was known beyond the castle walls. Her poetry, gloomy but elegant, was quite popular with the court nobility and praised by the critics, according to Myriel.

Marius was raised by his grandfather. Jeanne often said that if somebody was to make his story into a theatre play, the piece would have every chance to become a classic. Marius was born of a tragic romance between a noble girl and an apostate, which instantly ruined several families for generations.  Nevertheless, the family had kept Marius in hopes that he wouldn't have inherited his father’s curse of magic, and gave him up to the templars only when his abilities became apparent. Sometimes Grantaire wondered just how prudent that Pontmercy grandfather had to be to raise Marius, who, even after years spent among other Circle mages, still blushed and stuttered every time anything remotely erotic came up in a conversation and made an effort to visit the baths only when there were as few people as possible. Not unlike Jeanne, he was fond of poetry, though her macabre tastes horrified him. He was average at best at any form of magic and probably only capable of hurting himself in a fight.

Joly was another healer among libertarians. The only thing he feared more than possession was common cold. He rarely actually got sick, but there was always a certain paleness to his delicate face. It was hard to tell whether it was caused by some disease of the body or just by his sensitivity. Every time Enjolras called the mages to action during the meetings Joly got nervous as if he was about to be hanged at that very moment. Grantaire considered his fears adequate enough, if a bit exaggerated. Joly feared sickness and death so much it gave him an outstanding desire to live — something he and Grantaire shared.  

Bossuet was Joly’s best friend, or perhaps even more than that. As it often happens, the two of them were nothing alike, but inseparable. Bossuet was an elemental mage: he was best at destroying things, accidentally or on purpose, and loved every bit of it. He was kind, but not too conscientious, he never focused on one thing for a long time. Him and Joly were ones of Grantaire’s oldest friends.

Feuilly, strong-willed and earnest, grew up in a Chantry orphanage. While most libertarians came from noble, or at least well off families, he knew poverty and oppression first-hand long before the Circle. Therefore he dreamt of freedom not only for mages, but also for the poor. He was acquainted with both healing and elemental magic. He wasn’t a particularly talented mage, but he was capable of effort and diligence that allowed him to do almost anything, given enough time.

Bahorel was the youngest in the group and, like Feuilly, one of the few among them who had nothing to do with nobility. In fact, he usually spoke of nobles with scorn, though that didn’t affect his friendship with others in any way. He respected Enjolras endlessly, but at the same time he was probably the only person in Thedas capable of criticising him for being too moderate. He was fun-loving and reckless, but also surprisingly deep, and loyal like a mabari pup. He was a kind of person that would help a friend hide a body if needed, no questions asked.

Breakfast must have started a while ago. Enjolras, who had already forgotten about his food, was explaining something to Bossuet. He was tracing some shapes in the air with a fork. Joly followed his movements anxiously while Bossuet casted long sorrowful glances at Enjolras’ abandoned meal. Others sat nearby but seemed to be in no haste to join the discussion. Courfeyrac was whispering something to a red haired girl on the other table, Marius was looking absently at his own plate. By the way Combeferre’s back was bent Grantaire guessed that he was making some kind of notes in a book.

Grantaire looked around and saw Jeanne. She smiled at him and squinted.

“You? Could it be?” Grantaire exclaimed theatrically, coming up to her.

Jeanne immediately caught up with the next verse.

“What say you? ‘Tis a masked ball.”

Grantaire dropped his eyes.

“Pardon, monsieur. I find myself mistaken.”

Jeanne took his elbow, but then decided to do things properly and offered him a hand, the way a chevalier asking a lady for a dance was supposed to. She then continued in the lowest voice she was capable of:

“But will you dance with me, my lady, still?”

Those were the words from a controversial piece written by an eccentric orlesian playwright Rapierre half a century ago.  The play was nowhere near his best ones, but it was the only one banned by the Chantry censors. Rapierre was definitely aware of the reaction a story about forbidden love between a templar and a maleficarum would trigger, but his status as the court’s favorite protected him from any consequences. The same could not be said about the play: it’s plot was known to any educated person in the country, but it had never made it to the stage. Jeanne attempted to fix that any chance she got, even though Montfort mages were hardly the kind of audience Rapierre was initially aiming for. Grantaire loved the idea and supported her wholeheartedly.

“I will, if you insist.” Grantaire accepted Jeanne’s hand and made a curtsey.

It was usually assumed that the heroes of the play danced a northern menuet — a dance that was not intended for the height difference he and Jeanne had, especially considering how Jeanne was supposed to be Etien, the male partner. Grantaire always found the mechanics of the dance sort of unfair on that account: who decided the actual Etien, the brave templar knight, was not to be two heads shorter than his paramour?

Grantaire continued with the next verse:

“The beauty of Orlais. To meet someone and dance the night away.”

They started moving between the tables, overdoing the steps playfully. Even after all the years spent in the Circle, the dance remained easy and familiar for Grantaire. Jeanne also knew both parts perfectly, though she never had a chance to see a proper menuet with her own eyes, the way people danced it at parties in Val Roueux. Unlike her, Grantaire only had his cumbersome robe to remind him that in reality he wasn’t at one of those, in a shining ballroom filled with music and voices.

Mages were turning to look at them. Grantaire glanced at the doors. It seemed that templars were letting things slide for now, or maybe they didn’t recognize the play at all, even though the maleficar and her beloved were about to speak their most infamous lines.

“Cordelia, my love, let go of any fear. Tell me what burdens you,” Jeanne demanded, somehow managing to make the templar’s deep voice theatrically breathy. Behind her Courfeyrac was trembling with suppressed laughter.

Grantaire touched Jeanne’s robe just above the chest.

“Etien, your love is here. Always was.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Eponine trying to show him something with nervous gestures but decided to finish the scene before reacting to that. He touched Jeanne’s forehead lightly and continued. “And duty lies above. You’re not to cross the abyss inbetween.”

The next line was supposed to be from a nobleman shouting that a duke had been killed during the dance. Everyone was discussing the play a few days ago, so Grantaire was expecting Courfeyrac to join with a dramatic outcry at any moment. But Courfeyrac, instead, was silent. He was looking at something behind Grantaire with a meaningful expression.

Grantaire sighed, and turned.

“Good morning, First Enchanter,” he saluted. At that, all of the drowsiness and pain in his back had returned, reminding him of a sleepless night in the cell.

Him and Jeanne were standing near the libertarians’ tables, so he could see their uncomfortable expressions clearly. Combeferre, though, didn’t seem to be even a little bit surprised with them, and Enjolras, looked startled, as if he also had just noticed Myriel at that very moment.

Myriel didn’t find it necessary to answer the greeting, he just shaked his head. He also didn’t scold them. Instead, he ignored them completely and addressed Combeferre:

“You are needed in the infirmary. I would be grateful if…” Combeferre got up before he had a chance to finish. Myriel nodded gratefully and turned to Joly. “I’d also like to ask you to come.”

“What’s the matter?” Asked Grantaire, annoyed at being brushed aside. Myriel’s tone worried him. It sounded like something serious had happened. “You need healers, right? I can also...”

Myriel interrupted him dryly.

“There’s no need.”

Grantaire had no choice but watch them leave the hall. At the door Joly turned and made a confused face, showing that he, too, had no idea what was going on. That made him almost run into Bahorel who was entering the hall. They exchanged a few words, after which Bahorel hurried to join others at the table. He was disheveled and covered in soot. He was on chimney-sweeping duty for a month. Bahorel was technically still an apprentice, so Myriel tried to improvise with the correctional measures instead of just sending him to the cells.

“So, does anybody have any idea what that was all about?” Asked Jeanne when Bahorel had crumpled to the bench and grabbed a plate. Courfeyrac had also parted with his paramour and joined them.

“Is somebody hurt?” Marius guessed.

“Maker, Marius, that must be it,” huffed Grantaire. “And here I was thinking Myriel was gathering healers to brush up his boots.”

“You think it’s Lamarque?” said Enjolras with an intense frown. His eyes were starting to glow dangerously.

“Lamarque or not, it’s probably all the same now.” Bahorel stopped chewing for a second. “Rumors are, the chantry had already sent a replacement here. Some brutal fella, worse than Meredith in Kirkwall was. Or so they say.”

Knight-Commander of Kirkwall became famous for her severe methods long before the rebellion. There were talks that under her rule the Circle there became more of a prison where any mage who was unfortunate enough to bring attention to themselves could easily end up Tranquil the next morning. Or not see the next morning at all. Other rumors were also afloat: some blamed the templars who had become mad with power while Meredith had simply been following the Chantry laws; some said Meredith herself was either mad or cursed; some spoke of a mysterious illness that had withered her from inside. Grantaire had little interest in what might have caused the Kirkwall’s horrors, but he still listened to the stories hungrily.  Stories meant that somebody had to survive and tell them, and Grantaire was determined to figure out how. Sooner or later Lamarque and Myriel would be gone. And even if the next Knight-Commander would happen to not be quite as bad as Meredith, still the Circle would have to adjust to a new order. Grantaire was planning to go through it unscathed.

“We must be ready.” Enjolras began, looking heavily at his friends at the table. “This could be our chance. It will end sooner or later, and then...”

“And then what?” Grantaire interrupted. Enjolras’ intensity was intoxicating. He wanted to spring to his feet and start screaming, lash a lightning bolt at the ceiling, do something — anything, to choke the horrible feeling that was wringing his insides into a tight painful knot. Instead he mocked Enjolras’ grave whisper: “‘Our chance’. A chance to do what? Dance on the old man’s bones?”

Enjolras stared at him perplexedly.

“Grantaire, you know for a fact that I’m not...” He hesitated, searching for words. “Lamarque is an exception among the templars, but we can not afford to be sentimental. Not now.”

“What we can’t afford are your delusions, Enjolras.”

“Delusions?” Enjolras chuckled. It seemed he had finally stepped on a familiar ground — something he could start the preaching from. “Wery well, then. But why, exactly? Do we really have anything to lose? Anything the Chantry can’t tear apart at any moment anyway, even if we keep our heads down? Is there anything like that, anymore, except fear? You.” Grantaire watched, entranced, as Enjolras spread his hand to him across the table and squeezed his wrist. “What are you afraid of?”

He was shining with resolve and faith. That same light was burning into all of Grantaire’s tricks and compromising, shattering every corner of safety and denial Grantaire had built inside his mind to hide in.

He snatched his hand away quickly.

“You.” He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. Enjolras freezed, still looking him in the eyes.

The silence was broken only when Joly returned to the table. He didn’t seem to catch on to everybody’s confusion and started telling what he had managed to learn while he was gone.

“There’s a Grey Warden in the infirmary, a mage. I’ve never seen him before, but Myriel claims they’re old friends.”

“Did a girl arrive with him?” Bahorel asked suddenly.

“Yeah.” Joly nodded. “She’s probably his daughter or something. Or maybe a recruit.”

“So the mystery’s solved.” Bahorel said with a grin. “And Marius was so sure he saw a ghost.”

Everyone turned to Marius, who suddenly became even paler than he normally was. He asked nervously:

“She’s with the Warden? Joly, do you… Did you catch her name?”

Joly wrinkled.

“No, I’m afraid nobody called her by name. She’s helping in the infirmary now. Templars might know more.”

“What is a Warden even doing in Montfort?” Courfeyrac wondered. “Do you think he’s looking for new recruits?”

“No idea.” Joly shaked his head. “Myriel said they were attacked by bandits not far from the town. Looks that way, except the wound is maybe too infected for such a short time. But why would the Wardens need recruits now?”

“Why else would a Warden travel that far?”

Joly shrugged. Nobody knew what exactly the Wardens were doing when the Blight was over.

“After we patched the Warden up, Myriel asked Combeferre to stay.” Joly continued, pulling at his sleeve. “He’s with Lamarque now.”

Grantaire cursed under his breath. He was grateful for a respite earlier: while the others were busy discussing the Warden and the girl, he moved further from Enjolras, now surprisingly quiet, and hoped the Knight-Commander’s illness won’t come up again. But at those words Enjolras jerked his head up. Thankfully, before he had a chance to say anything, the bell rang, indicating the breakfast was over. It was time for mages to clear the hall.

Combeferre came back in a couple of hours. His words were whispered all around the castle, even by those who had nothing to do with the libertarians.

Lamarque was living his final days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two**

 

Grantaire was laying on the scaffolding near the ceiling. He was trying to paint, but his headache was so bad he could barely keep his eyes open.

He had only one wine source, Eponine. The Circle wasn’t strict on drinking, but Myriel strongly encouraged moderation, and so did Lamarque. Mages were allowed wine on holidays and celebrations, the rest of the the time it was water, milk and herbal drinks.

But not for those who managed to befriend Eponine, surely.

Grantaire always assumed she became a templar because of Gavroche, her younger brother, who was one of the junior apprentices by then. She wasn’t a full templar yet, just a recruit, still waiting to be approved to join the Order. Montfort, though, was heavily understaffed — it was so far away from anything exciting or promising, career-wise, that any templar in their right mind hurried to get out of there as soon as possible. So Eponine, not yet elected to knighthood, was treated like a templar and acted accordingly. That is to say, she smuggled lyrium out, and wine in.

Grantaire didn’t blame her for the lack of taste: she was kind enough to get him the best the small town’s tavern could offer. Eponine was somehow related to the innkeeper, if Grantaire remembered it correctly, and it appeared that the inn had definitely seen better times. Eponine was good at dashing drinks with water and counting her profits, not winetasting.

Grantaire yawned and sat up. The scaffolding wavered. The whole thing was attached to one of the high walls of the main hall. The room must have been breathtakingly beautiful once, when the castle still belonged to the nobles. It was taken from them by the Chantry about a century ago. The family had chosen the wrong side in The Game right before one of the many court power changes and disappeared — a story all too common for Orlais. Had it been closer to the capital, the Chantry might have had a better use for the castle, but here in the outskirts of the country it could only serve as another Circle.

The vault-shaped ceiling depicted a thunderous sky, and below it mythological scenes were painted in a traditional Orlesian style: macabre lions, unicorns and dragons were fighting and lying with humans. Pastorals turned into battles, and battles — into shameless erotic scenes. Grantaire found the whole thing fascinating. He had fought for it desperately when Myriel had suggested to cover it with something modest and andrastian, for decency’s sake.

 

  


“Fine,” he had given up eventually. “Do as you see fit.”  

Grantaire had began the renovation immediately.

He had finished roughly a third of it. He was also leaving his signature here and there, or making small changes to the original picture. He wasn’t completely sure if it was just another mischief for him, or an attempt to find a way to make his mark on the world, however small.

“I was here,” a naughty drawing of a semi-naked Andraste said, and was echoed by a grinning qunari warrior making an obscene gesture. “I lived here.”

Underneath the painting, where portraits of old orlesian royalty and nobility used to be, hanged andrastian tapestries. The floor was covered with a carpet, thin in several places.

The giant floor-to-ceiling windows were barred and protected with wards, the same ones that covered the boarded up balconies. The castle was made into a prison. It was possible to get out, given enough determination and cunning — some mages managed that from time to time, and Lamarque and Myriel preferred to turn away and pretend to not notice. But it was, still, a golden cage.

Grantaire was just finishing with another wide-nosed unicorn head when he heard someone calling him. He bent over the scaffolding and saw Joly, who gestured him to get down.

“Grantaire,” he whispered weakly when Grantaire got to him.

Grantaire wondered if he should really get worried. Joly was usually worked up about one thing or another, but at that moment he looked about ready to pass out. The first thought that spontaneously came to Grantaire’s mind was fear that something had happened to Enjolras, but Joly didn’t give his panic a chance to fully unfold.

“Lamarque is dead,” he said, and Grantaire barely managed to keep the contents of his stomach inside.  “Enjolras is gathering everyone in the library,” Joly continued hastily, taking Grantaire by the sleeve. “Let’s go. It’s not officially announced yet, Combeferre told us.”

Grantaire nodded and followed Joly to the library.

Lamarque’s death wasn’t unexpected, but it still shocked him. It meant changes were inevitable. Weirdly, he wasn’t worried about the Circle’s fate — after all, Circles have stood through bigger commotions and remained the same. He feared for his friends. He knew what he was about to see even before stepping into the library.

Enjolras stood at the head of the table, looking like a smudgy golden blotch against grey background. His face was pale, paler than usual; dark circles lied under his eyes. His fingers rested on the table, he was leaning forward and speaking — until Joly’s and Grantaire’s appearance interrupted him.

He glanced at Grantaire with surprise and annoyance at the same time, but after a moment dedication returned to his face. A bad expression, Grantaire thought, taking a place next to Jeanne, who was unusually quiet. Like a storm warning.

“They knew he was going to die,” Enjolras said, picking the speech up where he had left it off. “They have sent a templar to replace him just in time, they were preparing for this for years. Do you know what’s going to happen next?”

  
That was a rhetorical question, but Grantaire still felt the urge to answer, to cut in, just to throw Enjolras off his usual arrogance. Enjolras looked at him balefully, as if he had sensed that intention.  

“They are going to use this moment,” Enjolras continued. “They tolerated his liberal views — ‘liberal’ for a templar — because he was a hero. But now he’s finally gone. Now, before you know it, your shackles will become ten times heavier. They’ll be feeding you scraps, they’ll be wiping their boots on you. They’ll make the undesirables Tranquil, and the rest of you will have to bow down so low you’ll never see the light again.”

He straightened his back. Panic was suffocating Grantaire, but still he couldn’t take his eyes of him. Enjolras looked like a marble statue, full of righteous fury, brought to life by an eccentric golemist.

“All of you,” Enjolras said, his voice filling the library, “children of dukes and merchants, elves and humans, torn out of your homes and thrown here. Robbed of your rights, of any hope for family, of any ambition. For them, for The Chantry, we are inanimate objects, we are instruments, useful in time of war and forgotten after it. Is that what you want to be, The Chantry’s crawling dogs? Eating scraps thrown to you out of pity, and calling it kindness? Don’t we deserve a different life?”

‘No!’ Grantaire almost shouted. He wanted to jump up, to turn the table over; he wanted to wipe that foolish, marvelous rage off Enjolras’ face. But something was keeping him where he was, silent and frozen.

Mages around the table — not just their usual group this time — looked angry and inspired. Even Combeferre, always so sensible and reserved, seemed ready to go into battle any second.

“Lamarque will be replaced by Javert,” Enjolras said, as if putting a period to the emotional part of the speech. “You know Javert. He’s the Chantry’s loal beast, a fanatic. He won’t be here just to keep us in order. He’ll take this chance to make an example out of us. But this is our chance too. We need to act now, before it’s too late.”

This is it, Grantaire thought with dread. This is the moment when Enjolras’ resolutionistic insanity is given a life of it’s own. When rhetorics become a reality. He is stirring up an actual uprising, here, in Montfort, encouraged by a madman’s manifesto. Fuck the shackles and the scraps he’s talking about. He won’t change anything for the Circle, but for Enjolras himself things are going to change.

He’ll get himself killed, Grantaire realized with striking clarity. Killed, or worse — he’ll live out his days in Montfort a Tranquil, with a mark above his eyes, a living body with a mutilated mind. Grantaire couldn’t handle the thought. He spoke, slowly, as if he was trying to move something incredibly heavy:

“Would you stop it already.” Surprisingly, he managed to sound light, even lazy, despite the horrible feeling that overwhelmed him. “How can you even call someone else a fanatic right now? The Chantry has been chewing over poor idealistic kids like you for centuries. This is over you head. Javert, seriously? The only thing you’ll achieve will be a rope around your neck.”

Enjolras bared his teeth in what could equally be a grimace and a taunting grin.

“This isn’t just about me,” he breathed out. “Or anyone in particular. There are many of us, in case you didn’t notice. And templars can do nothing about it. Right now, they don’t expect us to attack.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed” Grantaire said calmly. “Or made Tranquil. And you’ll drag everyone you care about along with you...” He paused. “Oh, but I forget. You don’t give a shit about that, the only thing you care about are your liberation fantasies.”

It was almost painful to say it out loud, but Grantaire thought it was vital. Somebody had to do it. He glanced around the table for support, but everyone was looking at him like he had done something unforgivable.

Jeanne was the only one who met his eyes. She looked alarmed.

“I keep underestimating how much you like to grovel before your masters.” Enjolras said offhandedly. Disdain in his voice stung Grantaire. “Your apathy… your cowardice,” he pressed, “that’s what’s stopping us from getting our freedom. If I’m to be be responsible for any deaths, I’ll carry it. But you, Grantaire, you already have blood on your hands. Blood of thousands of mages who have been murdered by the Chantry before us, while people like you did nothing to stop it.”

His words were heavy like stones. Grantaire swallowed and attempted to sneer.

“Well, you keep barking at the Andraste statue, Enjolras,” he said, getting up. “And I’ll go find myself something useful to do. Like nap, for example.”

He didn’t wait for the answer and tried to get out of the library as fast as he could. Only then he let himself drop the pretense and felt a painful grimace showing on his face. He needed a drink. He needed to find Eponine. He needed to do something that would make everything that happened seem like a bad dream.

He hadn’t gotten very far from the library when Jeanne caught up with him and touched his hand. Grantaire glanced at her.

“He’ll die,” he said, almost soundlessly. “He’ll go through with this madness and he’ll die.”

“And you’ll be there with him” Jeanne said.

Grantaire said nothing at that and Jeanne squeezed his hand and left.

 

***

Grantaire couldn’t find Eponine, his own stash was almost empty, and templars wouldn’t let him go into the laboratory by himself. He gave up and crawled on top of the scaffolding and lied there quietly, unnoticed. He didn’t even try to mix the paint or do anything, he simply stared at the crackled plastering for a few hours.  

He almost managed to convince himself that Enjolras couldn’t have gone completely insane. Starting an uprising in Monfort made no sense. The castle was almost at the Nevarran border. It was just a place where the Chantry was sending misfits to get them as far away from the capital as possible. A rebellion could have happened in Val Royeaux, but not here.

Not in Montfort. Less than a hundred of angry mages couldn’t do much to a templar garrison. The revolt would be crushed before it would have a chance to rise. Good old Myriel would probably even defend them from any serious prosecution. They would spend some time in the dungeon and then everything would get back to normal.

Enjolras wouldn’t really go for it. He wouldn’t kill anybody, even templars, and he wouldn’t risk the lives of his fellow mages. He was good at making convincing speeches and he believed in his own words sincerely — it was a trait that Grantaire lacked, and the reason Enjolras had caught his attention years ago. But until then his words have never lead to any serious action. There was nothing to worry about.

Grantaire sat up and looked over the railings exactly at the moment when a gong announced a Circle meeting. Mages and templars started gathering in the great hall. Grantaire stayed where he was.

The First Enchanter appeared in a few minutes. He looked even older than he actually was then. A new templar took place at his right hand side: a tall, broad-shouldered man with rough features that made him off-putting. He looked about forty years old.

Myriel waited until the crowd settled to start speaking.

“Good evening, my friends,” he said. “I suppose you all understand why we are gathered here today.”

Grantaire looked around until he saw a familiar splash of blonde hair in the crowd. Enjolras was standing in a group of libertarians near the wall. Even from a distance Grantaire could see him looking daggers at the new man. The man was, undoubtedly, Javert.

“I have two pieces of news for you,” Myriel said. “One of which is truly sorrowful. This morning Knight-Commander Lamarque had passed away. He served this Circle for almost thirty years, ensuring safety and prosperity inside these walls. I am sure that everyone here respected him and his efforts. He will be greatly missed.”

The crowd howled and stomped. Myriel was right. Lamarque had been notable for his leniency towards with mages. The only reason he had managed to keep his position for so long was that the Chantry hadn’t cared for what had been going on in a Circle so far from major cities.

Myriel waited patiently. When the noise died down, he continued.

“But we are not alone in this moment. I present to you Knight-Commander Javert, who will join me in guiding this Circle from this day.” Myriel managed a weak smile. “I hope you will not let him down.”

Javert was met with dead silence. Grantaire was sure this wasn’t just the usual suspiciousness of mages. Enjolras’ speech must have also had something to do with it. Javert’s face, however, wasn’t showing any signs of concern. He nodded formally and addressed the mages.

“Ser Lamarque was a worthy templar and an outstanding scholar. Please accept my condolences.”

Myriel bowed slightly.

“Thank you for your time,” he said to the mages. “You can now get back to your day. The time and date of the ceremony will be announced later.”

Grantaire watched Javert for some time. The templar didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving the hall. He walked about, sizing up his soon-to-be charges, examining statues and paintings. He wouldn’t even be noticeable among the usual crowd, if not for the unfamiliar face.

Montfort was an isolated place, and that meant that strangers here were a rarity. The second “guest” stood apart from the others, in the shade of a column. He was talking to Myriel. He wasn’t dressed as a templar or a mage, he had some kind of nondescript travel armor, slightly battered and patched up. Grantaire would give him the same age as Javert, somewhere around forty, but it was hard to tell for sure because of his thick dark beard. His left hand was covered with bandages that already had some blood on them.

Beside him stood another stranger — a young girl, dressed, same as him, in worn travel clothes. She was saying something from time to time and smiled gently, but her eyes were scouting the hall.

She could have been a mage brought to the Circle by a conscious father, but parents never came in when that was the case. The two might have been simple travelers, but the Circle didn’t give shelter to just anybody. They might have come with a dispatch, but those were usually discussed in the presence of a Knight-Commander, and not in the middle of the great hall. Javert was obviously aware of the newcomers, but kept his distance.

An idea suddenly hit Grantaire. He remembered Joly talking about a Grey Warden and a girl that Marius had fallen for. Grantaire squinted. Well, no wonder. The stranger reminded him of empress Celine, if only somebody had softened out her sharp features with glass-dust. And Marius always had a thing for women who looked good on the portraits in royal castles.

Grantaire needed to speak with Jeanne urgently.

He climbed down the scaffolding and approached the group of libertarians. Bahorel greeted him with a cheerful exclamation at the top of his voice.

“Where’s Jeanne?” Grantaire asked.

“She left with you,” said Courfeyrac.

Grantaire shook his head.

“I thought she returned to the library.”

“And where have you been?” Asked Joly.

Enjolras suddenly replied for Grantaire.

“Hiding on the scaffolding.” He narrowed his eyes. “Conveniently.”

“The view is better from up there,” Grantaire grinned. “How does our fair leader find the new prison-keeper?”

Enjolras grit his teeth so violently Grantaire could swear he heard the sound. He realized, suddenly, that he was waiting for a response desperately, even for a cross one. But Enjolras, to his greatest surprise, didn’t say anything.

“What do you all have against the man, I wonder?” Grantaire made a vague gesture. “He doesn’t seem to be like the good grandpa Lamarque, sure, but I doubt templars normally succeed through talent and ambition. It seems to me, the nastier they are, the higher they get. It’s their job requirement.”

“What about Eponine then?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Eponine is not a templar yet,” Grantaire said significantly.

“She also gets you wine,” Bossuet laughed. That was obviously an attempt to change the topic of the conversation, but Enjolras didn’t buy it.

“You would know, if you’d come to our meetings more often,” he said.

“I would come if anything worthwhile was being said on them.”

“Your indifference is disgraceful.”

“And your idealism is just fascinating. Would be,” Grantaire caught himself quickly, “if I was studying madness. But I am but a humble alchemist.”

He smiled with all the charm he could manage, clapped Bahorel on the shoulder and left.

Grantaire searched everywhere in the castle, even in the restricted part of the library, but couldn’t find Jeanne. It wasn’t surprising, though it did disappoint him: when Jeanne wanted to be alone, finding her was impossible even with a phylactery.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

  
  


Knight-Commander Javert lived up to Enjolras’ grim expectations in the first few days. Templars searched every room, including the youngest apprentices’ quarters. Little Gavroche observed the search with a smug expression: he definitely had contraband hidden around the Circle, but it was not for mere templars to find. Grantaire was lucky enough to have the room he shared with Joly searched by Eponine and her partner. Grantaire couldn’t remember her name, because he and Jeanne have nicknamed the girl “Antiva” because of how thick her accent was when she had first appeared in Monfort. Eponine had to confiscate his stash of semi-forbidden herbs. He didn’t keep anything else in his room, there were more convenient hiding places around the castle for that.

Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras, the unspoken leaders of the libertarians, have been getting a lot more of the attention. Javert was suspiciously well-informed on their role in the community of the Circle, despite the fraternity not acting in any noticeable way since his arrival. There have been no preaching or discussions in the halls, no late gatherings in the library, no ignoring the templars’ orders. Enjolras had been uncharacteristically humble and law-abiding, he had even tolerated the fruitless personal searches. “We need people here, not in the dungeon,” he kept saying each time the libertarians had a chance to gather despite the curfew.

Grantaire’s hope for the rebellion to stop at the very beginning was fading quickly. Enjolras wasn’t making speeches anymore, he made plans instead. Libertarians were preparing to take the castle, and Grantaire saw, with horror, that the plan was realistic. More than that — it was already in motion. Details were being told in hushed voices from one mage to another, but everybody seemed to know the whole picture as a result, and the part they were supposed to take in it. It looked like the leaders have even been deciding who was supposed to get caught by the templars and when, to get their attention away from the others. That sort of cold calculation felt like something Combeferre would take upon himself. 

Grantaire tried to stay away from it all. He had been spending most of his time painting. Javert was genuinely confused by his restoration work, but didn’t prohibit it. 

On that day Grantaire was priming another section of the ceiling. He was also trying to imagine what would come of it if the battle was truly inevitable. Would it get charred by the flames? Or crumble, after the ice would hit it? Or was the painting destined to survive the rebellion and hang over his own corpse, indifferent to mages’ deaths and to templars’ triumph alike?

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, creating a small cloud of plaster dust around him. The lack of wine was making him insufferable, even for himself.

He heard footsteps and voices below. He looked down and saw Enjolras speaking to a templar that was guarding the entrance. There was no more than a dozen people in the hall besides them. Grantaire couldn’t make out what they were saying from a distance, but it was easy to guess: it looked like the guard refused to let Enjolras in the hall. Enjolras stood back when he met Grantaire’s eyes.  For a second Grantaire thought that it was a signal for him to come down and find Enjolras, but he dismissed that thought and went back to his work. Enjolras couldn’t have come there for him. In the days after Lamarque’s death few of the libertarians have even spoken to Grantaire, and Enjolras, it seemed, had forgotten about his existence altogether. 

“...mage!”

A sudden shout distracted Grantaire. At first he thought it was one of the templars calling him, but then he saw Enjolras, at the same place as before. The guard grabbed him by the elbow, stopping him from going away. Grantaire climbed down quickly without thinking. Enjolras threw the templar’s hand off and snapped at him. Grantaire didn’t hear the words, only a sound of the metal gauntlet hitting him. Enjolras steadied himself against the wall and held his hand up to his mouth instinctively. His fingers became red with blood.   

In the next moment Grantaire was behind the templar’s back, but Enjolras gestured for him to stop there. The templar followed his gaze and turned around. He looked frustrated. Javert wasn’t exactly a kind man, but he discouraged unnecessary violence. The hall had too many witnesses, including Grantaire, who was just a couple of steps away. His temper could cost the templar greatly if he were to do anything then.

“Get out of my sight, both of you!” the templar barked and stepped aside.

“Yes, ser,” said Enjolras. Grantaire stayed silent. He didn’t trust himself to speak, he was too overwhelmed with the desire to make the templar’s face melt under a wave of fire. 

He followed Enjolras into the corridor. They stopped in an isolated part of it. Grantaire noticed that Enjolras was still pressing a hand to his split lip. The graze on his cheekbone was getting darker. 

“I can...” Grantaire reached out to him, but stopped himself. “Or go find Combeferre. If somebody doesn’t heal it soon, it’ll scar.”

Like most powerful elemental mages, Enjolras focused only on battle spells in his training, so he wouldn’t be able to heal a cat’s scratch by himself. He nodded and put his hand away. Grantaire took him by the chin carefully and began applying a spell. The healing process after that was supposed to only take a few hours. The task was simple and didn’t require half of the effort Grantaire put to it, but for him it was the only way to distract himself from the fact that for the first time in his life he was so close to Enjolras he could see his individual eyelashes. Or the fact that he felt Enjolras’ breath on his fingers.

His blood, too.

“You could have stopped him at any moment,” Grantaire said through his teeth. “Or leave when he ordered you to.”

Enjolras tried to say something, but the cut, sewn together with a spell, immediately split open again. Another streak of blood ran down his chin. 

“Hold on,” Grantaire grumbled, putting the spell on again. He wouldn’t be able to explain his anger if he was asked to. It was stupid to worry because of a couple of scratches when Enjolras was about to lead a violent uprising that was doomed to fail. And still, those had only been words until then, too frightful to really think what they meant. Then understanding hit him, and he couldn’t stop the pictures that flew into his mind — of Enjolras wounded by swords and arrows, of him being hanged, of streams of the Chantry’s mark crossing his forehead. It felt as if that templar had destroyed a dam that had been keeping those images out of Grantaire’s head. 

Enjolras gave him a quizzical look. Grantaire let go of him and stepped back.  

“It should be fine now,” he said, realizing that he had forbidden Enjolras to speak earlier.

Enjolras immediately licked his lips.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Grantaire made a crooked smile.

The adrenalin numbness was fading slowly and Grantaire’s hands began to shake slightly at knowing that he was touching Enjolras’ face a moment ago. A familiar feeling was covering him gradually, like spasms after getting hit into solar plexus. He was still standing too close. The horrid pictures of Enjolras dying were quickly getting washed over by different ones. The ones where Enjolras would turn his head to catch Grantaire’s thumb with his lips; the ones where Grantaire would push him against the wall and kiss him, right over the newly cast spell; the ones where pleasure would make Enjolras close his eyes and breathe Grantaire’s name. Grantaire had imagined it so often and in such detail that it was almost painful to stop himself from sinking into a fantasy again. He turned around to leave while he could still think somewhat clearly.

“Grantaire, wait,” Enjolras called. Grantaire sighed helplessly and looked at him again. “I need your help.”

“Anything you want,” Grantaire answered.

Enjolras faltered. The words were supposed to sound kiddingly, but they didn’t. 

“When we were locked up, you mentioned a potion you came up with. The one that burned through a table,” he continued after a pause. “I asked Combeferre, but he couldn’t recreate the formula. We could really use your recipe.”

Grantaire nodded.

“Alright.” Not looking Enjolras in the face, he added, “I can help. Is there anything else I can do?”

Enjolras chuckled, perplexed. 

“Why do you ask? You don’t believe in what we are doing.”

“I don’t,” Grantaire agreed. “But I’m an alchemist, a decent enough healer, and I can fight. And I happen to live in the tower you’re going to rise a rebellion in.”

His words sounded accusatory. Enjolras fell silent for a long time. He wasn’t stupid, he must have understood that the uninvolved mages would be trapped in the besieged tower like hostages. 

“It’s going to be on the day of Lamarque’s funeral,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“We act at the funeral day. When the rain stops, his body will be burned at the square near the barracks. We will take the tower during the ceremony.”

“The rain,” Grantaire repeated. That meant that libertarians have been ready to make a move three days ago. The weather had been the only thing holding them back.

“Grantaire, do you seriously want to help?”

“Tell me what to do.”

Enjolras gave him a long look, frowning. At last, he nodded.

  
  


* * *

The plan was simple, but Grantaire had his doubts about it. There was too much relying on chance and on everybody doing exactly what they were supposed to. He thought about arguing, making Enjolras see that most of the mages he was putting his trust in weren’t capable of following orders. Some of them, including Grantaire, didn’t even have enough self-discipline to come down to breakfast in time. But the last few days have been proving him wrong. Somehow, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac have managed to assemble the disorganized mages of Montfort into a fine-tuned mechanism. 

And even Grantaire was going to become a part of it. There had been a lot of Circle rebellions in the past, and they all had one thing in common: when the situation had gotten dire, when the mages had gotten exhausted and when they had ran out of lyrium to help with that, somebody always turned to blood magic. That was the Chantry’s strongest argument, and Enjolras wasn’t going to prove it. He wanted Monfort to become a precedent: a rebellion free of dark magic, proof that mages could fight for their rights using clean, fair means. Grantaire’s potion was supposed to be one of them: something to use in case of a siege, against the templars’ attempts to wear the rebels down.

Grantaire had guessed that line of thinking the first time Enjolras had spoken to him about the potion, but he also had a thought that he didn’t want to say out loud: Kirkwall Chantry hadn’t been blown up by blood magic. After that, the public was more afraid of fanatics than of any particular type of magic. And Enjolras was exactly that, no matter what spells he used. 

Enjolras waited patiently for Grantaire to overcome his hesitation and then continued to tell him the details, but Grantaire stopped him once again. He couldn’t focus on the big picture. It came naturally to Enjolras — he seemed to be able to remember what each of the future rebels was doing at that moment and what part were they supposed to play in the taking of Montfort. Grantaire, on the contrary, gave in to anxiety each time he had to think a few steps ahead.  

He decided that he had heard enough and set his mind to making the potion. That had to do with a part of the plan Combeferre was responsible for. 

In the evening, thanks to Eponine’s help and Jeanne’s concealing magic, a group of libertarians managed to gather not far from the living quarters. Combeferre drafted a map of hiding places and future traps on a piece of paper. He then immediately destroyed it, as if Grantaire was supposed to be able to memorize it all at the first glance. In all the years they have spent together in the Circle Grantaire learned that Combeferre had flawless memory, never made mistakes in his calculations, but hated experimenting. That’s why he wasn’t surprised to find out that libertarians only had the classic mixes and powders at their disposal: firebombs, usual acids, oil. None of it was powerful enough to do anything to templar armor, even with the help of magic. The potion Grantaire had came up with wasn’t exactly gaat-lok either, but it would still do a decent amount of damage.

Grantaire hadn’t really thought what his formula was capable of, of it’s drops eating into flesh and metal, until he had to describe it out loud. The cloud of absorbing magic was making his voice sound muffled. Others, drained of colour in the twilight, stood still. Only Combeferre kept rubbing his chin  thoughtfully.

“How much can you make without arousing suspicion?” Courfeyrac asked finally. Resources were the biggest problem of the preparation: increased consumption of rare ingredients would immediately give them away.

Combeferre answered for him,“Less than three liters.” He must have been keeping count of the laboratory’s resources. “But that should be enough.”

“The mix can only be contained in glass,” Grantaire added. “Or in silverite, but that can be tricky.”

“Glass bottles shouldn’t be a problem,” Courfeyrac grinned. Grantaire almost hoped to hear hesitation or fear in his voice, but there was none. “Just try not to mistake this potion of yours with wine.”

When the matter of the mix had been settled, Enjolras turned to Combeferre.

“I spoke with Eponine. It is as we suspected, but I don’t see why...”

Combeferre made a resigned gesture.

“You know what I think about this.”

“About what?” asked Courfeyrac.

“Javert is taking precautions,” Enjolras explained. “He’ll have more templars stay inside the castle during the ceremony. More than we initially expected. He could also stay himself.”

Grantaire closed his eyes for a second. He knew what was going to follow. Courfeyrac shrugged.

“So what?”

Combeferre run his hand over his face. On the rare occasions when he lost his temper, he usually started to gesticulate, as if he was trying to explain to a very small very simple kid why it wasn’t a good idea to shove one’s head into a bonfire.

“Enjolras thinks we should get rid of the hostages we can’t trust.”

“We can’t risk it, Ferre,” Enjolras said stubbornly.

Courfeyrac was looking at them blankly. He, it seemed, didn’t understand why were they arguing about it all. Grantaire had a painful thought that maybe he had been dreading the wrong thing all along. He feared defeat, he feared that Enjolras and everybody else he cared about would die a martyr’s death. But he hadn’t even considered that the rebellion Enjolras was leading could turn into a gang of butchers at any moment. Into a vicious cult that would quickly drown Enjolras’ light in a river of blood.

“We’ll have to kill templars anyway, what’s the difference?” Courfeyrac wondered.

“We could take hostages,” Grantaire said weakly.

Enjolras shook his head.

“I thought about it. They won’t compromise. The Order expects templars to give their life for the cause, so no one will bargain for them.”

“They will for Javert,” Grantaire said. Enjolras looked at him, squinting his eyes in the growing darkness. A ghost of understanding appeared on his face. Grantaire went on, “Javert is a Knight-Commander of Montfort. If he dies, his successor will be entitled to call the Rite of Annulment. But if he lives, no one can do it but him, only the Divine or the seekers. We’ll get more time this way.”

Enjolras was counting on templars not calling the Right of Annulment right away — the law demanded for it to only be used in circumstances where the usage of blood magic was confirmed. Nobody was using it in Montfort, Enjolras was making sure of it personally. But still, it was the weakest part of the plan. Enjolras was relying on hope that the Order wouldn’t break its own rules in Orlay, so close to the Sunburst Throne. But that wasn’t enough. Capturing Javert, though, would paralyze the whole power structure of the templars for sure. Not for a long time, but still.  

“You’re right,” Combeferre said after a pause, relieved. “We must think it over, but...”

“It’s a solid option,” Courfeyrac nodded. “It might slow them down.”

Enjolras made an unclear sound. Grantaire couldn’t tell whether he had managed to convince him, but it didn’t matter. He had two votes out of three.

Combeferre put out his hand and snapped his fingers. The sound was sharp in the quiet of the night. 

“The concealing spell is dissolving,” he said.

The four of them looked around. 

“Jeanne?” Grantaire called cautiously, but to no answer. Jeanne was gone, and her magic was going too. Grantaire had been so involved in the conversation he hadn’t even notice the moment she had left. 

Eponine, who was on the watch on a lower floor, only shrugged. She hadn’t seen her either. 

 

* * *

When Jeanne appeared in the great hall in the morning, no one dared to speak to her first. She sat hunched up at her usual place and looked right through everybody with her reddened and unfocused eyes. Grantaire couldn’t tell if it was from crying, or not sleeping, or something else entirely.  

“Jeanne?” he called gently as he sat near her. She flinched and turned her head slowly.

“I’ll be alright by the evening,” she said, hoarse. 

Grantaire had seen her like that before, but this time it didn’t look like seasonal blues or a rush of morbid inspiration. 

He made sure there were no templars nearby and whispered, “I can get you something if you want. Or ask Eponine. The castle’s gonna be quiet today. There’s a commotion in the barracks, so most of the templars are there. Even Javert.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Grantaire thought that he must have said something wrong. Jeanne’s lips curled into a pained smile. She looked him right in the eyes for a second, then immediately returned to her previous detached state. Grantaire didn’t have the courage to question her further. He looked at the libertarians. Enjolras seemed about ready to burst with suppressed energy. Others were exchanging nervous glances. It took Grantaire a couple of minutes to finally get what was happening: broad streaks of sunlight from the windows had crossed the hall.

In less than an hour the rain  started again , but even a short clearing up meant that the weather would be changing soon. No announcements about the ceremony followed until midday; the majority of the templars were still in the barracks. The mages scattered to their positions, using this as a chance to check the preparations again. Grantaire went to the laboratory, he heeded to get his hands busy. He had taken most of the mix he had prepared out of there before sunrise, but there should have been enough ingredients for a few more bottles.

Judging by the excited whispering of the mages who wandered into the laboratory, Enjolras was doing his best to lift up the spirits of the soon to be rebels. Grantaire managed to avoid hearing any of the speeches for himself. He left the laboratory only by nightfall and joined the libertarians in one of the apprentices’ rooms. Bossuet greeted him with a cup of a weird-looking wine. Grantaire noticed Joly and Jeanne nearby. They both looked pale, though Jeanne seemed to be a bit better than she was in the morning. Both had their own cups of the same stuff and drank obediently when Bossuet gave them a stern look.  

“What is that?” Grantaire wondered. He’d have been perfectly happy with regular wine or maybe something a bit stronger. Bossuet’s experimental drinks, though, could have unpredictable side-effects. One time after one of those Grantaire had spent no less than two days convinced that every door in the castle had been an illusion, and the walls had been covered in glowing cracks.

Bossuet shrugged.

“Ash-leaf. Wolfroot. A secret ingredient called ‘Shut up and drink’. We could die tomorrow, I’m not going to spend the last night of my life looking at your sour faces.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

“Aren’t you a bright example of optimism.”

Bossuet winced and lifted his cup.

“Working on it.”

They turned to look around the room. Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and some of the others were having a heated discussion in the middle of it. Enjolras met Grantaire’s eyes, nodded at him and smiled, making Grantaire’s stomach feel like a lightning ball exploded inside of it. Grantaire nodded stiffly and looked away. 

Marius almost bumped into him a second later.

“Grantaire,” he greeted him, obviously distracted. Grantaire held him by the shoulders and gave Bossuet a quizzical look. Marius didn’t seem drunk, but something felt off about him. Bossuet just made an annoyed face.

“Grantaire,” Marius repeated, “you’ve always been a good friend to me...”

“You sure about that?” Grantaire wondered. Marius didn’t even notice his remark.

“My soul was set alight,” he reported. “And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

For a moment Grantaire was under a dreadful impression that Marius was trying to confess his feelings for him, but then he immediately remembered the blonde companion of a Warden and everything clicked into place.

“Did you learn her name?”

“Who cares for names!” Marius laughed and pulled at his hand.

Grantaire didn’t want to leave the quiet corner he had grown to love already, but Marius had a better chance at lifting his spirits than Bossuet’s spiked wine did. His sentimental talk almost made the whole situation feel normal, it was helping Grantaire forget about the next day for a while. It turned out that Marius’ paramour had managed to slip out of her rooms, and her and Marius had exchanged a few tremulant words. He had sworn, though not going into details, that he would leave the Circle for her. She had asked no questions, but had promised to wait and to find him.

It seemed like Grantaire wasn’t the only one who needed a distraction that evening. A number of other libertarians were also watching Marius. Some of them were smiling, some were rolling their eyes. Even Courfeyrac turned to him, grinning. Whatever the leaders have been discussing before, their conversation was dying away quickly. The pressure of the last few days was getting to everybody, but then fear gave place to fatigue and to foolish hope. Nobody could stay strung-up forever. Except for Enjolras, who was giving an evil eye to Marius and Courfeyrac in turn. He also looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes, but he was probably too stubborn to admit it. Or just incapable of noticing it himself. In the trembling light of candles he looked more real, more like an actual living person, than usual. Especially when Marius came up to him and said something that made Enjolras frown. He looked unsettled.

Then he noticed Grantaire staring at him. Grantaire knew he had to look away, to make himself hear sounds, make the time move again. But he had never been good at self-control. He couldn’t move a muscle, and he didn’t really want to. 

The stupor passed when the cold focused expression returned to Enjolras’ face. 

“Marius, please don’t interrupt unless you have something important to say,” he said.

Marius smiled. He smiled at everything that evening. Grantaire tried to do the same, then drained his cup in one shot and went back to Bossuet. He decided he liked the weird wine well enough to spend the rest of the night in its company. 


End file.
